Eggshells
by BelieveYouAre
Summary: This never should have happened. We should laughing with each other, not walking on eggshells around each other. Slash/Style


_**Disclaimer: No matter how much I wish I did, I DO NOT own South Park. Rights go to the show's amazing creators, Matt Stone and Trey Parker. **_

_** Also, this chapter may seem odd, but it will all make sense in later chapters. You just have to see me through on this one. =D**_

Red.

That is the only I can see.

The floor is red.

The sink is red.

Everything is _red._

I gathered the small boy's body in my arms. I checked frantically for a pulse along the side o his neck, visibly relaxing slightly as I found it, faint, but there.

"M-Mom!" I yelled. "Mom—call an ambulance!"

Footsteps clomped up the stairs. "What? What's going on?" I looked up to see my dad standing in the doorway, looking in with a horrified expression on his face. "Oh, my God…" I inwardly face-palmed myself as I remembered that my mom was out shopping with Kyle and Cartman's moms for the day.

"Dad, call nine-one-one!" I screamed, holding the bloody boy's head on my thigh and reaching for a towel.

Red.

So much red.

Everywhere.

Dad wasted no time digging his phone out of his jean's pocket. After completing the call, and making sure that the paramedics were on their way, Dad knelt next to me as I wrapped towels around the boy's wrists, trying desperately to stop the profuse bleeding.

"What—what happened to him?" Dad breathed shakily.

"He…he did it to himself. I guess—I guess he just couldn't take it anymore." I chuckled humorlessly, slightly hysterical. I sobered instantly. "Oh, my God." I said in a raspy voice. "I can't believe I let this happen. I should have gotten him help. I shouldn't have let him keep it a secret. He needed professional help, and I didn't give it to him. I should've ignored what he said. I knew he couldn't do this by himself. Even with me and Kenny, and sometimes fata*s, he—he couldn't do this. I—"

Dad grabbed my arm, turning me toward him and putting a stop to my hysteric rambling. "What, Stan? What couldn't he do by himself? What made him do this?"

I ran a hand through my hair, not even paying notice to the blood that stuck to my forehead and matted my hair. "Raped. He was raped, Dad. Some sick b*stards stole his virginity and messed him up bad."

Dad's expression grew pained. "How long ago? When did it happen?"

I kept a grim, yet guilty, expression on my own face. "Three weeks ago. Three weeks I could have done _something. _I could have done something, damn it! But I didn't! I am _so damn stupid!_"

I looked back down at the face of the small boy in my arms. He had this look of utter innocence on his face, as if he could break like glass at any minute, and there would be nobody there to stop him from cracking.

I guess he already had cracked.

Red.

Red is everywhere.

Oh—_oh._

So. Much. Red.

His pulse stuttered under my fingertips. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it wouldn't go…

His pulse stumbled to a stop, bringing my hold world to a halt.

"No!" I screamed. "No! No! NO! Where the hell are the damn paramedics!" I looked to Dad. "Will CPR work? I mean, he not drowning or anything…"

Dad gestured toward him. "Do it!" he hissed.

I counted silently as I formed a fist with my hands, pounding harshly in the center of his chest. After the count of five, I blew air into his mouth, watching as his body refused the air, only releasing it back into the air.

The sound of an ambulance came screaming down the street.

Toward us.

That thought alone scared me. It made the fact that the troubled boy had just bled out in my arms. His blood seeping through my clothes as he took his final, shuddering, unconscious breath. If a miracle didn't occur within the next few hours, he would never come back. I would never see my super best friend, again. I would never be able to tell him my deepest secret—that I was gay. I'd never be able to tell him that it was him. He was the one. The one that I loved with every last bit of my heart, body, mind, and soul. If he didn't come back to us, he would never know any of it.

It was all of these 'what ifs' that made you think. What if he didn't come back? What if I never saw him smile again? What if I never told him that I loved him? What if he died at such a young age, only fifteen?

And then there was the effect of all these 'what ifs'. He would miss out on everything he had ever worked for. He would never attend Yale, the college he had studied so hard to get in to. He would never become whatever he wanted to be. He would never get married to the guy of his dreams, adopt kids, find happiness.

Instead of going to his wedding, I'll be attending his funeral.

Instead of leaving flowers for him in his locker, I'll be leaving flowers on his grave stone.

Instead of crying tears of happiness and love, I'll cry tears of sorrow and pain.

And instead of confessing to him "I love you", I'll be crying to him "I miss you".

The paramedics took him away, and all I could do was send a prayer up into the dark, mysterious night sky. It was raining, as if the sky knew that something terrible had happened in South Park tonight, and there may not be a way to fix it.

Tears streamed down my face as I watched them wheel the fragile boy away. He was so still and pale under the sheets. They had strapped him to the gurney, and attached the breathing mask to his face, but even the medical help couldn't make him _look _alive.

I caught a glimpse of a man tearing the boy's shirt open, attaching things to him, shocking his body, his body jerking at the contact, the doors closing…

And the wail of sirens as the ambulance tore down the street.

But I remembered what I'd seen, for sure.

I saw red.

So much red.

His hair was red, just like it always was.

But this time…

This time it was different.

_"K-Kyle…" _

'


End file.
